“I bought you these” a soft voice said. A soft voice, once a hard voice, now a nothing voice. She takes the packet from him. Pink cellophane paper like warmed up glass, wraps a cluster of tired supermarket blooms. She looks at him, her face planed flat over time. He sees her dead eyes, sees them through his sad ones. Staring he waits for her to crack, for her expression to soften. For the moment to pass, to pass from this back into the past, to how things used to be.

Instead, through mail slot lips she mutters, “You shouldn’t waste your money,” then turns to find the vase. Words tumble through his smile as he hears her voice, and he hurriedly adds “It’s not a waste, I like buying you nice things…” She stops and stares now, does this a lot in fact. Fading off into the abyss, the abyss of cross words and hurtful moments, and years of lacking. The black that takes her heart, so hurt and eroded, and drops it off, over the edge. And dropping in the darkness, she grasps that sorrow. “Don’t forget” she whispers to her falling self.

He sees her hesitation, takes it for conflicted, forges ahead, as ever he does. Nothing’s changed. “I want you to remember.” And the vase in her hand, slammed down hard on the bench now, wonders how it still exists. “Remember?” she hisses, and jabbing her finger at the wafting funereal spray, asks “Why would you want me to remember a dead thing?”

And when his face slips, like a fried egg from a pan, she sees the dance. The music is the life that has been built around them, the movement are the words they use to move synchronised through it. She hates this dance. Is tired of sharing his spotlight. Still she reels herself back in, placing the vase on the table between them. “Thank you”, she says, “they are lovely”. She will say the same next week, each time accepting them and placing them, like a tribute on a headstone.

Love it!! I’m glad the vase survive. Most of all that she finally turn that emptines into a “thank you”. He must be very blessed to have finally get her to notice the aroma of those flowers. My hope is that they can dance together again….like the old days. I hope.
Great post! Like it!!
Great Love to you,
Mirian from peelingtheorange.

He has left. She only knows because she heard the sound of the door closing. She no longer hears his goodbyes, she knows he’ll be back. She laughs ……. then suddenly stops, surprising herself by the loudness of it. A smirk appears on her face. “My puppet” she thinks to herself as she catches her beautiful reflection in the kitchen window. He’s gone from her mind once again…. on with life she has such a busy day.

Sorry I don’t like your character. She sounds like she is peeling layers off this man that has aged with her through the years. It is almost as though she is so bitter from the countless affairs she has had to endure but know that this can’t be the case as she is stronger than him and would have ended it a lot sooner than now.
Does she ever reflect on what they endured together in the time that has passed or is it all about her?
Would like to hear from his side.

Like her or not, this is a woman who reached the end of endurance, and yet she still manages to do the right thing. To soothe his ego, to play his game. And while her side of the story might not be an entirely accurate reflection of their life together, I doubt his would be either.

This sounds to me more like a conversation of two people who no longer care. Life(through no fault of their own or by total fault) has completely stripped them of all the love, compassion, and feeling they had for each other. And it has been replaced with pity and contempt. Sadly…..there is just enough feeling left(Or it is by some cruel twist of fate)for them to still be compelled to make the pathetic attempt to spare the others feelings. Which, unfortunately….only serves to compound this tragic situation.